


Waiting and Losing

by stardropdream



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Episode Related, M/M, Scars, Sexual Content, Sharing a Bed
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-09
Updated: 2016-07-09
Packaged: 2018-07-22 13:35:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,134
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7441171
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stardropdream/pseuds/stardropdream
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Their first night back in Paris. (Coda fic for 3x01)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Waiting and Losing

**Author's Note:**

  * For [jlarinda](https://archiveofourown.org/users/jlarinda/gifts).



> I'm not quite sure what this is but I wrote it and it exists. Originally wanted it to be happier bed sharing trope since I know JL loves that trope... but it, of course, turned more melancholy than anything else. Sorry about that.

Perhaps Aramis should have expected that he’d have to share a room with Porthos that first night. There are limited rooms available and Aramis is the unexpected addition to the return party. Imposing on Constance and d’Artagnan is out of the question and Athos kicks in his sleep. Porthos, though. In tight quarters, Aramis often would share a room with Porthos – when they were on the road outside of Paris. 

Of course, several years have passed now. It is not so simple. Porthos does not offer it easily. Porthos does not offer it at all. Then again, years ago, they never had to offer these things at all – it was merely a given. Aramis finds he misses that certainty, that unspoken understanding. He finds that he’d give anything to find it again. 

Porthos’ in the corner, kicking of his boots – back to Aramis. Aramis watches him, unsure what to do with his hands and so settles for peeling off his gloves. 

The room is dusty but familiar. Constance has done well to keep the rooms aired out in their absence, despite it all. Still, for something to do, Aramis crosses to the window and lets it hinge open with a loud, rusty squeak – inviting the night air in. 

When he turns again, he sees Porthos’ gauntlets on the table, the old, beaten pauldron reshaped to fit a forearm rather than a bicep sitting beside it, reverential. Porthos is currently trying to work at the straps and clasps of his armor. 

“Here,” Aramis offers, striding over towards him. “Let me.” 

He watches the tension hike into Porthos’ shoulders as he approaches, but he does not protest. Aramis doesn’t question it, doesn’t let himself doubt it – reaching out to help with the armor. It’s cool to the touch, but now that he’s close enough he can see it is not the best of quality – would hardly protect Porthos from anything stronger than a passing musketball or a misplaced sword swipe. 

Not for the first time, the thought of Porthos at war is enough to make his heart heave into his throat. He swallows it down. 

And instead, he traces the patterns on the shoulders, fingers brushing over the horns of the bull. There are other animals, too. He smiles to himself and then looks up at Porthos. 

Porthos is watching him. 

“It’s quite ornate,” Aramis remarks because remarking on the questionable workmanship makes him feel sick – to think of Porthos out there to battle, ill-protected. Porthos, only one of three musketeers who survived the final assault. 

He swallows the thoughts back down. It isn’t his place to think about it. Not now. Not when they’re safe in Paris. 

“You think so?” Porthos asks, more rhetorical than anything else. But it’s more words he’s said to him in a little over an hour, so he’ll take it. 

“It’s very nice,” Aramis tells him. 

“Seems appropriate for war,” Porthos answers, watching Aramis strip the armor down piece by piece – how easily it splinters apart in his hands. A well-placed shot would completely dismantle Porthos on the field. He had to have been relentless in his fighting, especially with his back exposed as it is. 

He sets the shoulder guard down beside the gauntlets. 

“How so?” Aramis prompts, eager for more words, eager to hear Porthos’ voice – eager to be back in his life again. 

Porthos shrugs, purposefully and painfully dismissive of what he says next: “You have to be ruthless in war. So… you gotta be strong. Might as well fight like an animal, right?”

Aramis frowns at the tone, though. He watches Porthos notice it – watches the way Porthos’ expression clouds over. 

“You,” Aramis says, with feeling, “are a man. Not an animal.” 

Porthos watches him for a long moment – saying nothing. They stand there, in a long and steady silence. But finally, Porthos looks away. 

Aramis has unearthed something. Something unacknowledged, unspoken. He knows it in that moment. And he also knows, in that moment, that Porthos is not ready to talk about it. 

He won’t push it. He reaches out. Touches his shoulder. 

“It’s alright,” he tells him and watches Porthos nod. 

He strips down the last of the armor. Porthos murmurs his thanks and turns away as he tugs the shirt up over his head. Aramis sucks in a breath seeing the scars and turns away, too, undoing the ties of his own shirtsleeves. 

 

-

 

They strip down in silence. Look at the bed. Aramis is vividly, painfully aware of Porthos’ silence, every shift of his breath, his feet. He offers nothing to Aramis – no words, no permissions, no dismissals. 

Aramis has always hated not knowing where he stands. 

He does not know so much, but he knows this man. Has always known this man – a lifetime, an eternity. He realizes, distantly and painfully, that it’s been over a decade since he’s known Porthos. 

He does not know so much. But he wants. It beats in him like a river, flowing and filling him. 

They both look at the bed. He looks at Porthos – finds Porthos looking at him back. 

“You’re staying?” Porthos asks, his voice hoarse – and he’s asking so much more than simply this, simply the bed and the floor and the armor between them. The door is shut behind them. But there is an entire city sprawling before them, a country beyond. They are so far from Douai but not far enough to banish the phantom concerns. 

Aramis’ heart jolts at the question. He knows how much it will mean to Porthos, enough that he would say it outright like this, let the hinge of his pain leech into his words. It is a simple question and it is, decidedly, not simple. It is not an accusation this time. It is heartbreak. 

He remembers that day so many years ago, on the lane leading from the palace. Porthos hadn’t been able to ask him to stay. 

Later, when he had, when they came to the monastery to get him – he’d asked. And Aramis had refused. 

Now, it is not a question he asks lightly. It is, on its surface, simple: spending the night. But they both know it is anything but. 

“I’m staying,” Aramis says, hopes that his certainty colors his voice enough that there can be no doubt for Porthos, in turn. He does not know if it can be enough. He hopes it will be. He hopes he can prove it, someday. 

The lines in Porthos’ face tense and then fall. His hand reaches out, touches Aramis’ shoulder and drags him towards the bed. 

“Sleep, then,” he tells him. 

Aramis nods and climbs into the bed, turns so his back faces the wall and he faces Porthos. He watches as Porthos approaches and climbs into the bed carefully. The mattress is old and worn and dips with their shared weight. It is achingly familiar. How many nights did he spend in this bed with Porthos?

This feels different, though. Porthos does not reach for him and there is a breath of space between the two of them. Porthos stays with his back to him at first and then shifts, swivels his body around – tries to get comfortable. Ultimately, he does face him – half on his side, half on his back. Aramis lets him take up the bulk of the space. He is already infringing on this space as it is. 

 

-

 

They lay there in a long silence. There’s enough light from the moon from the open window that Aramis can tell Porthos eyes are still open. Neither of them is sleeping. The moonlight touches at Porthos’ hair, the slackness of his eyes as he stares into a space slightly above Aramis’ shoulder. Aramis wonders if he should turn away from this, if he should turn away from Porthos and let him rest without his watchful eyes upon him. 

But his eyes touch upon a long, jagged scar across Porthos’ shoulder. He doesn’t recognize it. Before he can second-guess it, he reaches out and touches it. 

Porthos doesn’t draw back, but he looks at him. The sudden zeroing in of his eyes on his is a little unsettling in its intensity. Aramis doesn’t draw his hand back, though – just meets his eyes steadily. 

“This…” Aramis begins but can’t seem to find the words. “This is—”

Porthos tilts his head to look, although Aramis doubts he needs the visual reminder of the scar. “Sword from a Spanish soldier. Before I got the armor.” 

Aramis runs his fingertips down over it.

 

-

 

It falls, then, to a recitation. Aramis touches a scar and Porthos tells him where it came from. 

“You are so strong,” Aramis says, wonderment and pain etched into his voice.

“I did what I had to do,” Porthos answers, voice flat. 

 

-

 

Aramis touches at a scar, finds himself inching closer. 

Porthos lets him come closer.

 

-

 

Shifting on the bed, Aramis tries to stretch out his legs. Tries to get comfortable. He is a hair’s breath from Porthos. 

Porthos stays still, watching him. Aramis’ hand, on his chest where it was tracing an old scar at his sternum, shifts a little and traces at his collarbone. Porthos lets him. 

Aramis shifts, shimmies under the blankets, tries to get comfortable. He is not used to being this close, in the end.

He is not used to being close to Porthos like this again. It is almost suffocating. He is so close and yet so far away – an arm’s length, a country’s pace, a world apart. 

He looks up at Porthos, and then his eyes drop down to his mouth. He looks away again, swallowing down thickly. His hands shake but he does not lift them away from Porthos – this strong, beautiful man covered in scars Aramis did not craft for him. This strong, beautiful man – left to fight battles without him, housing years of memories and ideas that Aramis will never know. 

“You are so strong,” Aramis says again, with feeling this time.

Porthos looks at him. 

And Aramis watches, slowly, as his eyes trace his face – his eyes, down to his mouth. He watches in a daze as Porthos’ mouth parts, as if to speak. But no words come. 

And then Porthos, undeniably, drifts closer. 

They collapse into each other – the first kiss a mess of teeth and unspent yearning, years of separation colliding, Porthos’ head held in Aramis’ grip, all of Aramis in Porthos’. 

They press down against each other, clothes loosened, both of them fumbling for what’s left to peel away – only linens, underclothes, hardly anything noteworthy and yet they move as if they’ve never done this before, unsure of their hands and fingertips. 

“I wanted to kiss you since the moment I saw you,” Aramis confesses between gasping kisses, his entire body shaking apart. 

Even Porthos’ hum has a ragged edge, afraid to let go of this. His hand slides against Aramis’ skin. In another time, Aramis would have laughed – but that seemed long ago. They’ve shared each other’s bed before, long before, all laughter and teeth and grins. 

This is nothing like that. 

This is desperate, this is uncertain and untethered – and Aramis doesn’t know what to hold onto. He grips at Porthos – tries, fruitlessly, to touch at everything at once: his hair, his face, his shoulders, his chest. 

Porthos’ mouth against his throat and teeth scraping, leaving wet half-moons against his shoulder, the slide of his tongue. Aramis gasps and arches, bucks his hips up against Porthos’ hand when it fists at his cock. They shift, roll, Aramis moving up to straddle Porthos before deciding he’s too far away and collapsing down against him, chest to chest, rutting against him until they’re both hard and gasping. Porthos digs his teeth hard into Aramis’ lip and Aramis whines and kisses him hard. 

 

-

 

It is a hasty, shaky fuck on the bed. In the aftermath, every inch of Aramis’ skin feels like it’s on fire – his entire body shaking, revolving around Porthos. Hands and mouth alone seem like too much and Porthos’ fingers are steady against his hip, sharp enough to bruise. Or so it feels. He comes shivering against Porthos’ hand and he is soaked in an unnamed need, aching, arching – gasping out to Porthos. 

When Porthos kisses him this time, it’s a touch sweeter. His hand is wet against his stomach, but rests there. Aramis can’t breathe. And still he yearns. Still he reaches. 

His mouth, then. His head feels like it’s swimming and still he curls his way down Porthos’ body, drops kisses over each new scar he’s never seen before, swirls his tongue around the head of his cock and coaxes him into a jerking pace. Porthos’ face goes slack, some of the tension finally easing away – and Aramis sees only pleasure, a surety in their nearness. 

Once they’re finished, once Porthos comes across his tongue, there is a slow, quiet moment where they are only breathing. And then Aramis strips away the last of their clothing, fumbles his way through the darkness of the room until he finds a bottle of wine he knew would be tucked away. Together, they sit propped up in the bed, sharing the bottle between the two of them, pulling long drags from the bottle’s neck, Porthos’ knuckles with an odd tension at the hold. Aramis, lingering near him, because being far away now seems an impossibility, an improbability. Absurdly, achingly, they are lingering like this – Aramis pressing his cheek to Porthos’ scarred shoulder, and then to his neck – breathing him in, listening to the pulse of his heartbeat. 

 

-

 

They lie on top of the sheets in the warm night. The breeze coming in through the opened window is still cooling enough to keep them from being uncomfortable. What’s truly comfortable to Aramis, though, is the smell of Paris – something he hadn’t realized was different until returning. It’s a slightly sour smell, but undeniably home. 

It’s close to dawn now, Aramis thinks. There’s something in the color of the moonlight that suggests dawn is coming – the hint of rust in the blue sky. 

Porthos reaches out and pulls Aramis down, shakes him to the brink until they are both shuddering with it – with a longing, with a need. Some sort of quiet fear that things will change once the sun rises again. 

There is intent, there. There is care. 

Porthos’ hands were always careful upon him, no matter how much Aramis tried to coax the hint of violence. He does not do this now. Not when his hands feel branded, tracing those animals on Porthos’ shoulders.

_You are a man,_ he’d told him. And it’s still true. It has always been true. And he will destroy anyone that ever made him think otherwise. 

His hands on Porthos are tender, a dip and a hollow, his mouth on Porthos’. His cock slides slow between Porthos’ legs. He can feel him shaking against him. Can feel the way Porthos digs his hands into his shoulders, gripping tight. 

There is heat and friction there, the way eased with sweat and come and a need to be closer – but it’s not enough, it’s not the same as being inside him. But it’s good. It’s good, it’s so good, after this long. Porthos arches. He groans out as Aramis reaches around and curls his hand around his cock, strokes in time to the thrust of his cock between his thighs. He feels Porthos shivering, shaking. He isn’t looking at him and it’s a fearful start in his heart to think-

“Porthos,” he whispers, begs. 

Porthos looks up at him – and his eyes are misty. Not with pain but with longing. And that—

The angle is all wrong but he scrambles, twists, moves in to kiss him. Kisses him again and again and again—

“I’m here,” he whispers, squeezes around his cock. “I’m _here._ I’m staying.” 

Porthos does not cry, does not twist past that misty-eyed promise, but something in his expression shifts – grows pained, jagged. An open sore. There is a tension to his shoulders that has nothing to do with the mounting pleasure between them. 

“I’m _staying,_ ” he promises, begs. Understand, please understand. Please believe him—

Porthos doesn’t answer. Only tugs him in to kiss him.

 

-

 

The next morning, the sun spills in through the window. Aramis feels sore all over, his body aching in a pleasant, subdued way. He stretches, slowly, careful enough to not knock Porthos’ arms away from him. 

Porthos, finally, is sleeping. He’s snoring slowly, but he wakes immediately once Aramis starts to shift. 

Aramis looks at him in the low light of morning, terrified for a moment that Porthos will draw away from him.

Porthos looks at him – slow and calm. 

Aramis offers him a small, tentative smile. “Good morning.” 

He holds his breath.

And lets it out again when Porthos smiles back. “Morning.” 

Together, they climb from bed. There’s some half-hearted washing with what’s available, sorting through their scattered clothing. He takes the cup of wine Porthos offers him and takes a tentative sip, in lieu of food. Porthos mutters something about getting breakfast soon. Aramis studies his boots as he pulls them on, doing up the laces. 

It is nearly time to go, to report to duty – their first full day as musketeers again, together. The thought nearly undoes Aramis – settles into the base of his spine and pulses upward, a low-level pain and pleasure: home again. 

Porthos is too far away from him. But he doesn’t know if he should reach out. He bites at his lip. His legs ache with it, with the need to reach out to him. His body aches from Porthos’ hands on him and he hopes there are bruises, some sort of evidence that Porthos touched him last night. 

The fear is abated quickly, though, as Porthos turns to him and takes a step towards him. He opens his arms to him and says, simply, “Come here.” 

Aramis does not need to be told twice. He nearly trips in his desire to get to Porthos, tumbles into his arms. Porthos holds him, hugs him close. Somehow, this is more intimate than his hand and mouth on his cock, rocking to completion between his legs. This, instead, is an encasement, a melting – he feels his breath hitch into Porthos’, his heartbeat speed up to match Porthos. He clings to him, quite simply, and has no intention of letting him go. This, at least, can be simple. 

 

-

 

They kiss in the doorway, Porthos’ hand on the door as it swings open. They linger, absurdly. Porthos smiles, slow and tentative – that glimmer of hope finally touching his eyes.

Feeling sentimental, Aramis lifts his hand and cups his cheek – kisses him one last time before they go on their way, back again. Home again.

**Author's Note:**

> I can be found at my [tumblr.](http://stardropdream.tumblr.com/)


End file.
